


The Christmas when Sherlock broke his wrist

by 200and21bees



Series: The Spirit of the Season [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Clothed Sex, Couch Cuddles, Couch Sex, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Minor Injuries, Rutting, Sensitive Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, so many Christmas tags, the smut just kinda happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/200and21bees/pseuds/200and21bees
Summary: Christmas planning and some broken bones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand-alone "one year later" kind of sequel to This Christmas. I've been planning this for a year but somehow still wrote it in a rushed hour.
> 
> Rated T for the third chapter I didn't plan on writing, oops.

 

 

He should’ve known better than to stroll out like he always does, it was freezing. Luckily, being the graceful little shit that he was, he managed to only break one wrist instead of his whole skull. John had to guiltily admit that when he heard the horrifyingly loud crack, his first thought was of the awful boredom sulks. Oh god, the detective was going to be so bored.

The initial lack of medical concern did make him feel a bit bad, but well, after the horrible moldy liver incident from the very same morning, John wasn’t sure if there was some sort of karma at work. It was the day before Christmas Eve and Sherlock had been actively sabotaging John’s attempts at making a Christmas dinner for them, running to a case when John tried to plan the cookings and spreading his experiments all over the kitchen. The latest episode with the liver had ruined the roast that John “had been bound to burn in the oven anyways” as Sherlock had stated. John knew the brunet wasn’t doing it on purpose, but he couldn’t help the sour mood that had somehow clouded 221b for a while now.

 

Ever the steady doctor, John just calmly closed the front door after himself and went to hail the cab they were going to take anyways. Of course, instead of the murder scene they were heading to the hospital. John expected Sherlock to argue and say he was fine enough to solve the case, but the detective merely muttered unhappily. That alone told John how much the wrist had to hurt. The fact that by the end of the cab ride Sherlock’s talking had been reduced to mere grunts, cradling the damaged wrist protectively on his chest, was a dead giveaway that the detective was in pain.

 

They got Sherlock patched up, a solid cast all the way to Sherlock’s elbow, the right arm – of course it had to be the right one, dammit, and it was a mutual decision that there would be no case after all. John didn’t have the faintest why Greg had decided that calling Sherlock would be a good idea, John had made it clear that the holidays would be spent without chasing criminals. But apparently murder still happened and Sherlock would’ve probably been perfectly content to spent his whole Christmas running from crime scene to crime scene.

Sherlock’s face was starting to turn slightly red and his eyes wouldn’t stay open as the initial adrenaline wore off, so they took the painkillers the doctor prescribed and headed home. As soon as they arrived at 221b, Sherlock collapsed – very carefully – onto the sofa and curled on his side, still cradling the arm. John could see his breathing was still too heavy and took pity.

 

“Want another painkiller? Just one though.”

 

It was almost fun to watch Sherlock realise he had been so obvious with his pain that John had noticed. He immediately stretched his legs and gave a seemingly nonchalant do-what-you-want-I-don’t-care hum. John just smiled and went to the kitchen to get some water. He paused to take a look at the damage done to his dinner plans and decided to pop into the store just in case he could still find something. As he gave Sherlock the glass and the pill, he told the detective to not to try anything. Not that the cast would allow him much – he couldn’t even move his fingers – but John wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to find a way to make it worse if the mood stuck him.

 

Of course the stores were almost empty, as he had feared. He somehow managed to find a small frozen turkey and some just-add-water sauce, and he hopelessly added eggs and beans to the list. Some cinnamon just in case he might try gingerbreads again. Well, with Sherlock injured he would probably stay up all night anyway so he might as well make use of the time. He took extra care when walking back home.

Sherlock hadn’t moved – thank goodness – while he had been away, but he hadn’t been resting exactly either. His feet were twitching nervously and he was already picking on the cast. John tutted and handed him the phone Sherlock had somehow forgotten on his coat pocket and hadn’t bothered to go and fetch.

Sherlock didn’t take it. Instead, he kept tugging on the edge of his cast, looking down at the floor.

“I’m sorry I ruined the roast today.”

“What?” John crouched next to Sherlock’s head.

“I swear it was an accident, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m ruining this Christmas.” John put his hand in Sherlock’s curls and rubbed Sherlock’s scalp with his thumb.

“It’s okay, you haven’t ruined anything. We have both been a bit busy and moody, but it doesn’t mean the whole Christmas is ruined.” Sherlock lifted his gaze and John could see he was really feeling the strain of his injury and apparently the last few days too.

“Okay, just let me get these to the fridge and I’ll be back, yeah?”

 

John took the shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. Luckily, he had taken the time to clean and put the liver away so that he now had a relatively clean fridge with enough room. Then he went back to the living room.

Sherlock reached out with his other hand, and John took it. He helped Sherlock lift his head and sat on the sofa with the detective’s head on his lap. John instantly started to massage the curls and Sherlock gave a deep sigh. He lifted his hand again and searched for John’s hands. He quickly found the left and John let him pull it to his lap where Sherlock started to play with the ring on his ring finger.

The brunet was getting emotional like he often did when he was too tired, and John reached to pull down an afghan with his right hand. He settled it on top of them, set an alarm on his phone – he would still have to get the turkey ready later – and continued to rub Sherlock’s head and neck. Soon they were both nodding off.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is again very welcome!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve, dinner and more feelings since I'm apparently unable to keep it light.

 

 

As the night started to fall, John finally got up and started on the dinner preparations. Sherlock stayed on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep, still a bit distracted by everything. John brought him a few pieces of toast with a good helping of cold cuts as a very late dinner.

 

Starting on the turkey, John spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out how to season it. He tried researching a bit but every site he found had different suggestions and John ended up knocking on Mrs. Hudson's flat, hoping she wouldn't be too bothered.

 

"What's this? Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson creaked the door open. "Come in dear." John shuffled in, noticing that Mrs. Hudson had been cooking something delicious-smelling. "I hope I'm not interrupting, it is a bit late."

 

"Oh, nonsense. Can I help you with anything?"

 

"Umm, well you know I'm not really a cook, and I thought you could help with the turkey's seasoning." She clapped her hands merrily. "Oh wonderful, you got a turkey! I wasn't sure what you boys wanted and totally forgot the meat in the fuss."

 

John frowned. "What?"

 

"Oh, it's nothing, I'll bring it all to 221b tomorrow. Poor Sherlock, he should take care with a weather like that. Now where's that turkey?"

 

"You shouldn't have gone through any trouble for us." John was feeling both grateful and a little bit coddled. "Not that I'm not grateful, but I'd still like to do the turkey myself, I just couldn't find any helpful tips."

 

She still insisted on coming upstairs to see the turkey, and they figured out the perfect mixture of herbs and spices for it. She also gave John tips for the gingerbread dough and also the canned-beans-dish that John wanted to try even though it did sound like a disaster from the beginning. She agreed to lend a few carrots and her leftover blackcurrants for John to experiment with.

 

Sherlock had been woken up by Mrs. Hudson's fussing and had stalked over to lean on the living room doorframe. John glanced at him, smiling, and continued arrange his ingredients. He was going to start with the dough, as it would need to sit in the fridge for a while before baking to enhance the fl-

 

"Do you need help? I could help." Sherlock's voice cut through John's planning, the detective sounded a bit small and a bit urgent.

 

"Hmh? Have you seen your arm? No, you go rest, I was going to do this myself anyway." John pulled out the bag of wheat flour that he had managed to keep hidden from Sherlock so it was usable. As he turned to pick up the eggs from the cupboard, he nearly ran into Sherlock who was already holding the container.

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"I want to help. You know how agile I am with two hands, I'm not that much worse with only one." John sighed but took the container from Sherlock. "Okay then, but you have to be careful." The brunet nodded and glanced at the arrange of spices on the table. "Let's get started then, I'll measure the ingredients."

 

 

They finished the dough – Sherlock did take a few tastings – and John mixed the seasoning for the turkey while Sherlock made them some tea. They went back to the sofa, both nursing a cuppa. John checked the time from his phone and giggled.

 

"What?" Sherlock was trying not to look like he was about to fall asleep again.

 

"It's bloody two o'clock in the morning, it's basically Christmas eve already. This must be the most ridiculous time to do Christmas preparations, and I’m drinking caffeine at the moment." Sherlock did chuckle but John could see that he wasn’t fully in the spirit. “Tea contains very little caffeine.”

 

I know that, you git. You know, Mrs. Hudson has made us something and I’m guessing my attempts will blanch in comparison.” He laid his head on the brunet’s shoulder.

 

“I don’t think.” Sherlock drowned his cup and put it on the coffee table. “I’m sure you’ll have made something edible.” Then he took John’s free hand and once again started to play with John’s fingers, stroking and very gently twisting them. John drank his own tea and joined his other hand on the activity too. After a while they were lounging and John had the sense to arrange them so that they were laying on the sofa before they both fell asleep.

 

 

John was surprised when his neck wasn’t sore at all when they woke up. Sherlock on the other hand was complaining about both a sore neck and an aching wrist. John got up and produced a painkiller for Sherlock and a cup of tea for himself. “Did you want some breakfast or do you think you can hold on until the dinner?”

 

“I’m fine, if there’s something from both you and Mrs. Hudson I’m going to have to eat something, so I’ll just save my appetite to that.” John shook his head and went to make himself some breakfast. He should’ve remembered to buy something for that purpose because toast with fried egg was getting very boring.

 

After breakfast, John tried to convince Sherlock that there was a Doctor Who Christmas special that he really had to see. Not that it ever worked really, but this time Sherlock did indulge him and didn’t even comment on the mistakes or discontinuity as often as he usually did. He even let John pop in another disc and they managed to get through a total of three episodes until decided he should get the turkey to the oven.

 

One night in the fridge wasn’t nearly enough to melt it, so together they made sure the microwave wasn’t contaminated ("God knows what you have put there, Sherlock") and then let the turkey melt there as the oven heated. Sherlock was keeping an eye for the temperature while John cut the carrots and tried his best to make something edible out of the beans and cranberries and the mix of spices Mrs. Hudson had recommended.

 

When they deemed the bird warm enough, John got a dish for it and then piled everything there, hoping the broth would seep into the meat like Mrs. Hudson had said. He added salt on top of everything, just in case. He didn’t dare make either of them take a taste, saving the possible disappointment for later.

 

Sherlock made them some more tea and then they cuddled up on the sofa and continued with Doctor Who until they heard Mrs. Hudson climb up the stairs, already hooting for them.

 

“Boys! Clear up a table, would you dears.” She appeared at the door, carrying a large tray. “I heard you preparing the turkey, and it’s probably ready soon so you’ll have time to set the table for your dinner.”

 

Sherlock and John took a look at each other. The kitchen table was out of the question – it always was – and maybe they could’ve eaten at the coffee table like usual, but with Mrs. Hudson… Sherlock stood up to grab John’s laptop from the desk while John started to pile up the notes scattered all over the surface.

 

“Of course you’re going to eat with us, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “If Sherlock gets those books to the shelf, you can put the tray here.”

 

With the tray safely on the desk, Mrs. Hudson scuttled downstairs to fetch _another one_. Sherlock gave John a slightly desperate-looking face and John just shrugged back. Then he went to the kitchen to check on the turkey which was indeed ready. Sherlock helped to clear off some space on the table for John to cut it and to scoop the rest of it in a separate dish.

 

Mrs. Hudson had settled the dishes on the table when they returned, John carrying the turkey and the carrot-bean-mess and Sherlock balancing the plates, cutlery and glasses on his left hand. They set the table and sat down. Besides their turkey, there was now potato casserole, carrot casserole, something with fish and blackcurrants in it and cranberry sauce. The other tray, which apparently contained the desserts, was waiting on the coffee table.

 

“I noticed Sherlock setting up a lab on the table and figured you weren't going to get anything done so I decided to help out a bit,” she explained. John just chuckled.

 

“This is a bit more than just a bit, you’re a saint. Now, Sherlock’s of course going to try everything too, right?” At that, they started to pile their plates.

 

 

After the dinner, Sherlock was laying on the sofa again, this time merely content. John had persuaded him into trying the food, piling his plate with a small amount of everything. Sherlock ended up realising that he in fact did like the turkey and the weird bean dish and Mrs. Hudson's potato casserole.

 

One helping turned into two, and John insisted he try the Christmas pudding and the fruit cake as well, so now the detective was sinking into the sofa like an overstuffed sack of potatoes while John put away the food and baked the gingerbreads. He was almost sleeping when John came back with a plate. “Here Sherlock, try these.”

 

Sherlock sat up with a groan. “John, I’ve already eaten far too –“

 

On the plate was a pile of extremely tiny gingerbread hearts, only slightly larger than Sherlock’s thumb print. Somehow, they had managed to maintain their shape even in the oven, but Sherlock could see they were a little different from each other, unique. John giggled a bit. “I cut them freehandedly, took me ages. Now take the tray, will you. There’s a new batch coming and they’ll burn in seconds if I’m late.”

 

He did bake another plateful of tiny hearts but the rest of them were regular gingerbreads. Sherlock was still holding the plate when the blond came back, brining tea for them. He looked at Sherlock. “Do you like them?”

 

Sherlock jerked his gaze up to John. “I’m… They’re very, uh, symmetrical.” John came to sit next to Sherlock, setting the mugs on the table. “I don’t know why I did that, really. Just popped into my head, the idea.”

 

Sherlock raised his head to give John a lopsided but radiant smile. “I recon they are quite lovely.” John had actually done that. Tiny hearts. He had taken such care with each one.

 

What had Sherlock done for their Christmas?

 

Sherlock's smile falters slightly. "I'm sorry. The first case took so long, and then there was that strangling right after and I... I forgot. I forgot about Christmas." He took a look around the room.

 

"We didn't even get a tree." Sherlock lowered his gaze to the cookies again. John put the plate to the coffee table next to their tea cups. "Did you want one? I don't mind, though a few fairy lights or something would've been nice."

 

Sherlock started fidgeting, now playing with John's fingers with his hand. "We had one, last year. It was the best Christmas I've had and... this year I forgot." He swallowed heavily. John finally got a grasp of the problem.

 

"Oh, Sherlock. I know things have been quiet but we've been busy, you’ve been busy and I understand. Last year was last year, we’re here now and though we’ve been a bit distant lately and you’ve got a bloody cast on your arm, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Not even back to last year. Every Christmas is the best Christmas with you.”

 

Sherlock hugged John tight and then asked him to help look for a set of lights from last year (“We have to have at least that”). They found one and hanged it on the mantelpiece, John trying to manage it while Sherlock tried to snog him to the floor. The room was dimly lit with the colourful glow, and Sherlock was smiling again. They returned to the couch and Sherlock let John feed him the tiny hearts and tea until they fell asleep on the sofa again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There'll be a third chapter with almost-smut, because I can't write a decent Christmas fic apparently.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the Christmas day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter I wasn't planning to write at all, but oh well.

 

 

This morning John did wake up to a sore neck. He'd been laying on top of Sherlock, lightly drooling on his shirt.  
  
Lightly rutting against him.  
  
That woke him up completely and he rose up to his knees and elbows frantically, moving his groin away Sherlock's stomach. He was just contemplating getting off completely, going to loo or making tea, when a hand wrapped around his hip and pulled him back down.  
  
John pulled his head back to look at Sherlock. The man was looking at him sleepily, but something told John he'd been awake for quite a while. "Keep going."  
  
"I'm sorry, that wasn't exactly how-" He was cut off by Sherlock's hips pressing upwards, Sherlock's hardness making itself known. John's breath left him in an involuntary gasp and he ducked in to kiss at the brunet's neck vigorously.  
  
Sherlock moaned and moved his hand underneath John's shirt, almost scratching the skin with his fingers. John sucked on the skin gently and pulled back again, panting heavily.  
  
"Are you sure? Does you arm hurt?" John was quickly getting aroused, but he couldn't forget how loudly the bone had snapped just a few days ago.  
  
Sherlock just gripped a handful of John's shirt and tugged, almost rolling his head on the pillow already. "Please, John. Keep going."  
  
"But your arm-"  
  
"Will be fine if I get some proper endorphins to my bloodstream." John couldn't help but chuckle. Such a Sherlock thing to say.  
  
Nevertheless, he did get off of Sherlock to help him get to a better position, lifting the casted hand out of harm's way. Then Sherlock tugged at his t-shirt hem again, none too gently.  
  
"Now get here and snog me."

 

 

 

Sherlock was laying on his back, other hand sneaking underneath John’s shirt while the injured one was stretched above his head, hanging half off the sofa so that it wouldn’t get on the way.  
  
John went back to kissing his neck and he stretched back to let him. True, his arm was a bit achy, but damn if he'd let it stop him now. In a fit of confidence, Sherlock pulled his hand back to grab John's hand gently go pull him back and kiss him, immediately taking over with his tongue.  
  
After a while he nipped at John's lower lip for the final time before pushing the doctor upwards, immediately tugging at his t-shirt again. John got the hint and pulled the garment off and tossing it to the floor.  
  
Sherlock ran his hand across John's chest, appreciating the view. He hadn't been confident enough to take things very much farther than this, but John seemed to enjoy it all regardless.  
  
He ran his fingers around one nipple very lightly, tickling John. The blond shivered and bent down to kiss him again while his hands went to Sherlock's hips, caressing the iliac crests and his lower stomach, asking for permission.  
  
"Yeah," Sherlock whispered against John's lips. As John started to tug at the string, Sherlock had to add: "Just the pajamas though, if that's fine."  
  
John just kissed him again, pausing his hands for a while. "Of course, of course." Sherlock ran his fingers up and down John's back, gathering his thoughts.  
  
As John started on his pajama bottoms again, Sherlock raked his nails down John's back, harder this time and moaned faintly. The doctor backed off for a moment to pull the pajamas off completely before crawling back to kiss Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock nearly came already when John pressed the heel of his hand to Sherlock's crotch, moaning against the blond's mouth. John's other hand found its way underneath Sherlock's shirt, just laying on his stomach.  
  
Sherlock could feel his orgasm nearing and grabbed John's hand through the fabric, guiding it towards his nipples. As soon as John got the hint and pinched one of them, Sherlock let go and plunged his hand straight down the doctor's pants and boxers.  
  
It was practically over after that. John gasped loudly and bucked up to Sherlock's hand as the detective took hold of John. The visual was too much for Sherlock and he came, arching up to John's hand now gently gripping him. It only took a few uncoordinated jerks of Sherlock's hand and John followed him with a moan.  
  
After a while John went back to laying on top of Sherlock, listening to his heartbeat as they both caught the last of their breaths.  
  
John's adorable giggle broke the silence. "Merry Christmas day, Sherlock."  
  
"Mm, merry Christmas, John." Sherlock squeezed John one-handedly and nuzzled his nose on the top of the blond head.  
  
The doctor got up and picked up his shirt and Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Then he looked at Sherlock, seemingly glowing with the fairy lights behind him, the morning still too early to cast a proper light.  
  
"Care for a shower?"  
  
"Oh God, yes." Sherlock got up and pecked John on the lips as soon as he got close enough.  
  
"You'll need to wrap up this cast though, you're the doctor."

 

 


End file.
